


no more cyanide kisses (i’m methylene blue)

by Mousetrap



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Piningjolras, Unsafe Sex, boys being fools, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 10:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mousetrap/pseuds/Mousetrap
Summary: A story about two people who hurt when they're put together, but hurt more when they’re apart and learning to be patient, whatever that means. or Enjolras and R keep sleeping with each other then fucking it all up again.Everything feels far away from him, and so does everyone. He’s created this bridge of emotions over the summer he can’t explain and whoever is waiting at either side cannot rescue him, only wait patiently for him to make a move. He means to say this. He means to say something like this. He means to express to Grantaire that this last year has been terrible and confusing and wonderful, but this summer of radio silence has been the worst and he misses him.Instead, he opens his mouth, face blotched red with anger and says, “I don’t know why you find me so intolerable, but it's affecting everyone else so can you either work on it, or let me know so I can finally give up on this charade of niceties completely”.Grantaire barks out a shock of laughter.





	no more cyanide kisses (i’m methylene blue)

**Author's Note:**

> title from Tonight I Feel Like Kafka, a very R song by Jealous of the Birds 
> 
> excited for feedback, thank you for reading  
> all typos are my own, written during finals week blur  
> will edit after finals are finished x.o

1.  
Grantaire’s outside smoking when he finds him. He doesn’t know what propelled him to come outside from the crowded apartment of their friends, and he supposes he could make an excuse like he needed to come out for air himself, but it’d be a lie. He’s not inclined to lying.

 

The smoke curls delicately in the dark, and Grantaire’s index and middle fingers hold the cigarette so lightly it paints the moment fragile. The heat of the day has yet to fade, but Enjolras suppresses a shiver. He moves from lurking by the door to somewhere closer to Grantaire, who faces the night sky thoughtfully and sits on the ledge of the balcony, his feet dangling off carelessly.

 

Surely, he’s noticed he’s not alone out here, but Grantaire has yet to turn his head.

 

“If you’re here to tell me I’m missed inside, I won’t believe you.” He says with a laugh.

 

“I’m here to ask for a cigarette.” Enjolras lies. Maybe he is more of a liar than he thought previously. Grantaire startles at his voice, clearly expecting someone else. His phone in his back pocket buzzes, and Enjolras watches silently as he fishes it out with his free hand. Enjolras can only see his profile, but he notices the dark eyebrows on his face burrow down in a look that is equal parts delighted, confused, and incredulous. Enjolras has never felt jealous of a text before.

 

“You can take the pack, I’m going back in.” Grantaire says turning around and standing. He fetches a nearly empty pack of Lucky Strikes from his front jacket pocket and tosses it towards Enjolras so their hands have no chance of brushing. Grantaire takes a moody final puff and exhales quickly and crushes his cigarette under his dirty converse. Enjolras recognizes them as the one’s he’s had since freshman year, once nearly white but now are nearing an even beige.

 

“Don’t go, I didn’t mean to kick you out.”

 

“It’s fine, I wanted to say goodbye before people started leaving anywhere.”

 

Although it's dark, it's just passing ten and people won’t start heading to their own rooms for another hour or two, and even so, Enjolras is the meter of when to leave.

 

He’s frustrated. At himself, for not saying what he wants, and for not knowing what he wants to say for once. His frustration becomes physical and his hands clench painfully at the pack in his hand.

 

Everything feels far away from him, and so does everyone. He’s created this bridge of emotions over the summer he can’t explain and whoever is waiting at either side cannot rescue him, only wait patiently for him to make a move. He means to say this. He means to say something like this. He means to express to Grantaire that this last year has been terrible and confusing and wonderful, but this summer of radio silence has been the worst and he misses him.

 

Instead, he opens his mouth, face blotched red with anger and says, “I don’t know why you find me so intolerable, but it's affecting everyone else so can you either work on it, or let me know so I can finally give up on this charade of niceties completely”.

 

Grantaire barks out a shock of laughter.

 

“If you think you've ever pretend to be nice to me, or make my life any more pleasant, you should drop out now and pursue comedy, because that's frankly hilarious.” The comment feels old, like nothing had progressed from freshman year remarks, and Enjolras is confused. More than that, he sees red.

 

“So what, all last semester was a joke to you?”

 

“If you’re just going to throw it back at me now, like it was some fucking burden to talk to me civilly, then yeah, it’s a joke, you're a joke man.”

 

“It was a lot more than civil conversation, Grantaire.” It meant something, Enjolras wants to say.

 

He wants to say that the last night in dorms, when he was exhausted by his final earlier that day and made his way to Grantaire’s room on instinct despite the fact that there was no use in studying together, hunched close and knees brushing anymore, had meant something to him. They had laid silently in bed together for a moment, thinking their own separate thoughts though their legs and arms were tangled, until Enjolras felt a rush of barely contained fondness and turned his head, looked down at Grantaire and pressed their lips together. Grantaire had gasped into his mouth, but didn’t move to separate himself.

 

Grantaire usually hid behind baggy clothes and a boisterous personality, and likely an alcoholism that was excused because he was currently a college student. But he felt so small and precious in that moment and the moments after. His hands were calloused from boxing, his skin paled and paper-like from days locked in the studio, and his feet were uncomely from years of ballet. His big, brown eyes had seemed so vulnerable.

 

Halfway through, Grantaire had started crying, staring up at him, saying, “don’t do this if you’ll regret it” and “don’t play pretend for one night”. Enjolras had brushed his tears away, first with his thumbs, large and delicate on Grantaire's face, but then with kisses and words. “I won’t, I won’t”.

 

Enjolras didn't need to coat the loss of his virginity in a love-story to appeal heteronormative, Judeo-Christian, and patriarchal sentiments, but it felt like one.

 

It felt irrecoverable, but he didn't regret it. The next morning, Grantaire was gone, and everyone had to clear the dorms by noon so there wasn't much time to look for him, beyond a text that said, “I woke up alone in your room, impressive”.

 

Then, the Summer of Radio Silence began, made equal parts worse and better by the fact that Grantaire only ignored Enjolras's direct texts, but still responded to the group chat. He responded to stupid things, with his normal amount of humour and on-brand pessimism that had become endearing to Enjolras.

 

He had hoped to end the silence tonight at the welcome back slash house warming party hosted by Combeferre and Éponine in their new, two-bedroom apartment. He was sure Grantaire would come, because if his hatred for Enjolras was eclipsed by anything, then it would be love for Éponine, and the rest of their mutual friends.

 

Instead, things have spiraled out of control, and if he wasn't so angry, he thinks he could cry. The pack of cigarettes burn in his hand. He is not often insecure, but everything with Grantaire feels magnified a hundred times. He feels like an ant trapped under glass, burning up. He feels like he’s holding the glass and everywhere he points it something living and breathing burns up and dies.

 

“I'm going to go inside, and you aren't going to stop me with any niceties, and we aren’t going to speak for a long time. And then I’ll be okay,” Grantaire stops for a moment, “or I'll die of alcohol poisoning.” He makes his way inside, and doesn’t look back. Enjolras watches him through the transparent glass door to the balcony. He rubs Éponine's back in a fierce hug, whispering something to her that causes her to hug him fiercely back.

 

He moves around the room saying his goodbyes, before trailing behind his roommate Jehan, who is gripping his hand tightly.

 

Enjolras turns to face the night sky, tries to see what Grantaire found so interesting and peaceful about it when the blackness facing him makes his anger bubble up again. Nothing comes out right anymore.

 

He chain-smokes the rest of the pack, and forces his mind into a calm blank.

 

2.

 

The meeting finishes only 15 minutes after the allotted time, which is such an improvement Bahorel wolf-whistles at the concluding remarks.

 

Junior year is going to be an ambitious one, Enjolras had decided this summer. He's worried about his résumé, as a lot of his cannot translate onto a piece of paper, but he feels stupid for worrying about it.

 

Their club is working in solidarity with the Students for Justice for Palestine, as well as the Black Student Organization, and the Feminist League to host a city wide apartheid week in late February. And starting in a few weeks after he completes his 40 hours of training, Enjolras is also interning part time along Jehan and Éponine under Feuilly, who dropped out three-weeks into freshman year and now organizes a domestic violence hotline center and shelter, aside from a plethora of side-jobs.

 

In theory, he shouldn't have any time to worry about Grantaire.

 

This theory proves to be wrong.

 

He lies in bed almost every night in the awful twin beds in the on campus dorms, and wishes he could walk to Grantaire's apartment he started sharing with Jehan this year. He wishes he could lie in Grantaire's messy queen bed he had bragged about in the groupchat, and feel his smile and see the happiness in his eyes that is so rarely unrestrained and earnest. He wishes he could kiss him again, and take his time, being careful about it. He wishes Grantaire would listen, but he wishes more than anything, that if Grantaire listens, he would know what to say. He doesn't know if he feels like crying or throwing up, and so he stares at his ceiling numbly and goes to bed hours later, only to be woken up by his alarm soon after. This pattern has been repeated for weeks.

 

Grantaire hadn’t shown up to the first meeting, which Enjolras figured was fair. But it's almost Halloween and he still hadn’t attended a single formal meeting and aside from being grating, it has caused the others to worry.

 

They’ve only run into each other in passing four times. Twice at Combeferre and Éponine’s apartment when one is coming and another is leaving, once Grantaire walked Bossuet to his first political economy theory class, that Enjolras also has, and once, when Enjolras had been feeling terrible after another night of no sleep and stomped to the dance department, looking through the glass doors of a few practice rooms, thinking of using the excuse he was looking for Cosette to return her book on knitting she had lent, which sat heavy in his book bag, although he had possibly deduced Grantaire was practicing today as well, and found Grantaire, Cosette and Floréal stretching. Grantaire had his back to him, but Floréal gave him such an impressive glare, that his handy excuse imploded and he hurried out, filled with shame.

 

He follows Courfeyrac back to Combeferre’s apartment after the meeting, which is closet to the Musain and also the largest as they turned the second bedroom into a hangout room with a futon bed when it became clear Azelma would be staying at the boarding school upstate and that Gavroche would be spending most of his time at Jehan’s and Grantaire's, whose apartment had become cozy, colourful, and chaotic. Éponine said she didn't mind, in fact she encouraged it because it meant Grantaire had to stay sober for longer periods of time than he would be inclined to if not being trailed by a 15 year old boy.

 

Before settling around the dinner table, Courfeyrac raids the fridge for the light ciders he likes, grabs three and sets them down.

 

“I can't get anything out of Jehan or Joly and crew. Spill.” He says immediately after sitting down.

 

Enjolras feels self-conscious for a few moments, then considers lying. He says, “We had sober, consensual sex. He ignored me afterwards. I feel like this isn’t all my fault.”

 

"You can feel however you want." Éponine says from the couch. “Whoops sorry, I’ll pretend I didn't say anything.” She adds dryly once Combeferre sends her an unimpressed look.

 

“I don’t know if I’m more shocked by this happening or the fact that I’m shocked that this happened.”

 

“Did you say something you didn’t mean? Perhaps during the moment.”

 

Enjolras shakes his head. He had a lot of time to rethink every moment, and had gone through everything this summer. At first, he worried it hadn't been physically satisfying, or that he’d been to clinical or unpracticed, but Grantaire seemed to enjoy himself, even if he was a little emotional.

 

“He cried, but I comforted him. It was emotional," He feels himself blushing red, but remembers the bridge, and forces himself to walk across it, “But it was enjoyable, and emotional, for both of us.”

 

"I think you should text him, or write him an email. You always get so heated when you two talk spontaneously."

 

Courfeyrac snorts, “Clearly a sign of a healthy potential relationship.”

 

“Jehan avoided sleeping with you for months because he thought you would drop him afterwards, you don't have room to speak,” Enjolras snaps.

 

“Choosing to gracefully ignore that, equally because I love you and because I am happy and you are sad.”

 

“You two could be wonderful, or you two could be terrible. It's all up to you." Combeferre says, then looks over at Éponine, smiling fondly and distractedly for a moment.

 

“Don't let happy endings fool you, they're not a simple conclusion. It takes work, it takes time, and it takes patience. You are good at one of these, one is out of your control, and if something, if this is important to you, learn patience.”

 

Enjolras, charming and terrible, brilliant like the sun and just as harsh, couldn’t figure out what patience meant. Did Combeferre mean to suggest he should wait for Grantaire to come to him, or be patient with himself for his own mistakes. It was too vague. Something he hated more than bigotry and oppression, was spinelessness and ambiguity. He could not handle uncertainty. He needed a plan, and he needed to figure out as many variables as possible. He considered his emotions privately despite two sets of eyes watching him.

 

Grantaire wasn't beautiful, but it had grown hard to study him objectively. His eyes, too far apart and too big had become beautiful to Enjolras, for he knew the warmth that came from them, and how they crinkled to near slits when he was laughing. His mouth, thin dry lips and teeth that were both gaped and slightly crooked charmed Enjolras, the particularly long two front teeth he had endeared him endlessly. His nose, large and hooked was his favorite feature though. It was strong, and bold, which fit Grantaire’s personality and he didn’t shy away from his looks, despite what others had told him. He was scrawny and concaved in with a slouch that made him appear hunchback when he was nervous. Éponine had spent freshman year attempting to improve his poster by spraying him with water and snapping, “What would your violin teacher say, what would M. Brujon say!” but had given up after he snapped, “Probably nothing of subtense as he is in jail.”

 

"Okay, I'll learn. This feels important.” His friends smiled in support, and they moved on, to topics that weighed heavily on his heart, but hurt much less.

 

 

3.

 

In a silent truce, Enjolras had agreed to go along with Courfeyrac’s Halloween costume idea in exchange for being more than his usual brand of difficult this semester. 

He is regretting it now, as the two of them make their way to pregame at Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s with the whole group before heading to the first party of the evening, hosted by the Feminist League in their president’s off-campus two-story house.

 

“I regret this.”

 

Courfeyrac pinches the bridge of his nose in show, “Please, let’s not pretend you wouldn’t have come dressed up as either some obscure old European dude or in your Slytherin cloak from high school.”

 

“I won’t confirm or deny,” Enjolras says with a smile. “And don’t pretend you weren’t as delighted by my Rousseau costume.”

 

“Rousseau was it, I thought you were Napoleon.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t take the bait, and they walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes as they make their way there. It’s nearly ten at night, and the city is as busy as normal, but their outfits aren’t the weirdest that they pass. He tries to keep his thoughts circular; classes, homework to do, work goals, repeat. His heart starts beating erratically the closer they get, but he’s too embarrassed to ask Courfeyrac for advice, and he’s texting quickly on his phone anyway.

 

When they reach, the gang of Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta open the door, smiling warmly and wearing white t-shirts with one large symbol on the middle, a heart, a yellow laughing face emoticon and a blue thumbs up, respectively.

 

“Wow, Facebook reactions. You three are geniuses!” Courfeyrac declares and makes his way inside, with Enjolras trailing.

 

“You and Enjolras are pretty cute too,” Musichetta says, smirking.

 

“I really think I’m carrying the team with this one.” Courfeyrac says, twisting to show off his fluffy white bunny tail.

 

Inside, they stop to respond to the cheers of greetings while walking straight to the table with cups and alcohol. They’d arrived last, and everyone seems halfway to plastered by now.

 

Grantaire, Floréal, Cosette, Éponine, and Jehan are all spread out between two couches but seem to be in some group costume that Enjolras can’t figure out.

 

Grantaire notices him staring and rolls his eyes, “Dude, haven’t you ever seen Sailor Moon?”

 

He feels his face heat, pleased at the olive branch conversation starter.

 

“I haven’t. Are you the sailor moon?” He moves closer to the couch Grantaire’s sitting at.

 

“No,” Grantaire says patiently, as if he’s talking to a small child, “I’m Tuxedo Mask, a lady charmer, tall, dark, and handsome.”

 

“It’s ironic because you’re gay, short, pasty, and -“

 

“Thank you Éponine, that’s enough now.” Grantaire says with a fake British accent, reaching over and patting her head as she sticks her tongue out at him. Éponine is wearing some cross between a school-girls’ outfit and a sailor costume in dark blue, leaning against Cosette’s taller frame, who is wearing a gold tiara like the others under her short cropped blonde hair.

 

Floréal has one hand curved protectively over Grantaire’s waist, and her own red solo cup seems empty from the way she’s carelessly looking at it. She had refused to become a part of the ABC activism group, which Enjolras would be the first to agree wasn’t the only way to show support to the myriad of issues they tackled.

 

But aside from that, she seemed to hate him. He at first assumed it was a bristly hostility she gave everyone, but watching her interact with his other friends in various occasions Grantaire dragged her along to, he had concluded that it was specific to him. Right now, she’s wearing some sort of red and white costume like the other girls and Jehan, and her long, silky black hair is undone from her usual braids and left flowing behind her.

 

“You two match. Adorable.” She says as if it is the least interesting or adorable thing she’d ever seen in her life.

 

“I’m a magician,” Enjolras says, then adds a beat later, “To go with Courfeyrac, and perhaps Marius, are you dressed like a carrot?” He turns to ask him, who is sitting on a couch with Jehan. He doesn’t really need an answer, as Marius is dressed in all orange with a green hat that his auburn hair stumbles out of.

 

“Yes, it’s quite a cute threesome we have going on. Maybe enough to win!” Courfeyrac says from across the room by Combeferre.

 

“Is there a competition?”

 

“No.”

 

The conversation devolves from there. There isn’t any room on the couch by Grantaire, but he stays stubbornly standing in front of him, to the increasing amusement of Éponine and Floréal and the increasing bemusement of Grantaire himself.

 

After he finishes his first drink over the course of a quick half hour, he moves to refill it, and bumps into Combeferre who had dressed up alone as Uncle Pennybags, but seems to be having a great time.

 

“Let me make you a drink.” He offers, and Enjolras hands his cup over willingly. He leans against the table, and faces his friends.

 

“It’s a family we made.” Enjolras says.

 

“I think they’ve found us more than we made anything.” Combeferre says, but nods in agreement. From starting a leftist club on campus his freshman year with Combeferre, his only friend from boarding school also attending the university, and barreling into meeting Courfeyrac a week later, things exploded since then until they became this group of friends who knew each other so deeply at times it felt like there was nowhere to hide, but in a city so anonymous, having someone know him at times when he was changing so much he didn’t know himself made things a little more bearable. Being able to inform his own politics by incorporating the lived experiences of others, testing out his ideas, and refining his convictions, these were the things he lived for, and things his friends allowed him.

 

“Here,” he is handed his cup back, filled to the brim with a dark liquid. Enjolras takes a slow sip.

 

“Whiskey, and something orange.”

 

“We’ll refine your palette yet,” Combeferre says.

 

He doesn’t make his way back to Grantaire’s couch, which has attracted Joly and Bahorel, who is wearing some sort of caveman outfit, a reference to something Enjolras pretends to know, but it could very easily been something no one else knows and is just afraid to ask. Cosette and Marius have moved by Courfeyrac and Musichetta and are discussing the order of the parties to attend, looking at Musichetta’s map app on her phone.

 

Feuilly makes his way to the drink table, wearing a doctor’s costume with quite impressive zombie makeup.

 

He and Combeferre start up a conversation on the university’s mental health services, but Enjolras sips his drink, feeling suddenly moody.

 

He watches Grantaire, and after a while, Grantaire’s eyes move from Éponine who he is speaking to, and finds Enjolras’s.

 

The sulky mood hadn’t left him, but he mouths hello to Grantaire anyway, whose eyes light up and he mouths hello back. Enjolras takes that as his cue to finish his drink and make his way over. He grabs Grantaire’s hand, pulling him up quickly before any counter-argument can get started.

 

“Walk with me outside?” He asks in a way that isn’t a question. Joly doesn’t have a balcony the way Combeferre does, but they live on the first floor, and it’s easy to exit and feel the cool air on their faces and the anonymity of the darkness.

 

Feeling brave and a little sad and self-indulgent, Enjolras asks, “If I said kiss me, what would you do?”

 

“Say it and find out.” Grantaire is quite drunk himself, in a way different from his boisterous wasted self, and his occasional melancholy one.

 

“Kiss me. Please.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything, then reaches to Enjolras’s face, and cups it in his own hand,with his fingertips curling into his blonde locks, bringing it down so their lips are pushed together.

 

It’s a soft kiss, not a dirty one like he had perhaps hoped for. It’s brief, but when he goes for a second kiss Grantaire doesn’t stop him.

 

It feels too sweet for their history. Like they were full time lovers and not people who didn’t know how to work together in a way that didn’t hurt. When he looked at Grantaire now, it hurt. When they were apart, it hurt worse.

 

“Ow,” Grantaire says nonsensically, like he can feel it too.

 

Everyone stumbles outside a few moments later, but the space between them is respectable by then and doesn’t draw more than a few surprised looks.

 

“We’re heading to the first party, I hope you’re drunk because it took forever to get everyone outside and we are not waiting again.” Musichetta says matter of factly.

 

They don’t say anything, just shrug in agreement and fall behind the leader.

 

“Thanks by the way, I got your emails,” Grantaire says while they’re walking to the first party and the others had steamrolled ahead. Grantaire’s hand is close to Enjolras’s, so close in fact, that it must be some force of nature than slots them together, and he swears he didn’t even move to breathe.

 

Grantaire doesn’t move his hand away, on the contrary he squeezes Enjolras’ hand back hard.

 

“Why no response?”

 

“Dude, did you want to correspond over email or just vent? I wasn’t sure.”

 

“I guess you’re right,” Enjolras takes a moment to think of what he wants to say exactly, “I like talking to you.”

 

“Perhaps,” Grantaire hums disbelievingly.

 

“I think you look wonderful tonight.”

“Dude, don’t worry, you’re gonna get laid tonight. Ease off.”

 

“I’m trying to get into the habit of saying the good things that come to my mind and not dissolving into anger as quickly.” He says calmly.

 

Grantaire laughs, as if it’s the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “Never change.”

 

“I’m worried I can’t,” He admits.

 

They look ahead, and see the others have turned some corner. They drunkly race down the street, calling their friend’s names in random order until Bahorel yells to shut up, and they follow Jehan’s exaggerated bird calls until they make their way into the middle of the group, perhaps to be separated if they still weren’t holding hands tightly.

 

The first party is fun for the twenty minutes they’re there, talking in groups that incorporate acquaintances and strangers alike, until Bahorel gets into a fight in Bossuet’s honor when he accidentally falls and hits a football player with his elbow on his way down the steps from the bathroom.

 

The second party is a bit of bust, they are the most diverse group there, and they sit grumpily between two couches and a suspiciously sticky floor listening to deep house. Jehan tries to dance for a while with Courfeyrac and a reluctant Combeferre, until some white dude comes up and starts petting Combeferre’s hair, talking about how badly they want to grow dreads.

 

“Yeah, it’s time to go,” Courfeyrac signals needlessly.

 

The third, last party, is Enjolras’s favorite. His drunkness settles into something light and reckless, and he dances next to Grantaire with his friends for a few songs, before being pulled into a corner of the room and making out increasingly desperately with Grantaire until Jehan apologetically breaks them up to inform Grantaire that Courfeyrac will be spending the night and their place, and helpfully suggesting Grantaire stays with Enjolras.

 

It isn’t a problem, in fact Enjolras had assumed that was how the night was going to end. It’s nice to figure it out before the leave the party though. However, knowing they’re going to end up with each other tonight makes Enjolras too eager, and he informs Grantaire they’ll be leaving now almost as soon as Jehan makes his way back to Courfeyrac.

 

Back in the single dorm room Enjolras stays in, the drop their jackets and toe out of their shoes immediately. Enjolras flicks the lights on as they stumble inside, but Grantaire flicks it off almost instantly. Before he can say anything in protest, Grantaire stands on his tip-toes and attaches his lips to Enjolras’s, moving to explore his mouth with his hot tongue, and sucking on his bottom lip with such fever it feels swollen.

 

They move distractedly towards the bed, the room is small so it’s a short, safe venture, while their hands do not leave each other’s bodies and neither do their mouths.

 

Enjolras’s head is hot and heavy, throbbing with inebriation and lust. Everywhere he is touched and everywhere he touches feels impossibly warm, and sends shock waves of pleasure to his stomach. He’s leaking in his underwear, and they have barely started.

 

In bed, Enjolras’ terribly small twin bed, they fumble to find a way to lay. It ends up with Grantaire beneath him, and Enjolras’ arms framing the sides of his face, his fingers twisting into his dark curls. He can feel Grantaire’s hardness on his stomach as they rub against each other, Grantaire’s legs curling around his ankles.

 

“Can we?” He breathes against his ear. He feels Grantaire shiver beneath him, and rock his body forward.

 

“What do you want?” Grantaire counters.

 

“Like before,” Enjolras flushes.

 

“Try new things?”

 

“If you want.” He doesn’t know how to say last time was more perfect than he ever dared to hope for, though it seems like he doesn’t need to say anything.

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything either, rather he moves to unbutton his shirt with shaky fingers, before Enjolras knocks them aside and does it himself, quickly.

 

“You’re beautiful.” He shoves his fingers into Grantaire’s mouth before he can say anything contrary, and feeling swallowed himself by his desire. The need to consume and be consumed rips through him. Grantaire sucks them lazily, his eyes hooded as they look back up at Enjolras. He moves them around, feeling for some reason as if he is possessing Grantaire, and scrapes them along the confines of his mouth. He pulls them out, wiping his fingers on his shirt.

 

Enjolras moves to shimmy out of his pants, feeling clumsy and silly at how long it takes him, until he feels another hand join him and help remove him of everything but his boxers. His legs, long and thin, look bizarre next to Grantaire’s baggy suit pants.

 

“You too, please.”

 

Grantaire pushes him forward, and takes off his own pants and socks. They breath for a moment, neither daring to close the bridge between their bodies, and Enjolras thinks of that terrible night nearly two months ago. A bridge between his futures, he has to move. He does, and pulls Grantaire on top of him this time, letting his dark curls pillow over his face from above. They make out in a way that feels more than making out, they devour each other, the sweetness of their first kiss of the night gone. He taste blood on his tongue, not knowing whose it is, he swallows it deliriously.

 

His hand moves to his side table, fumbling for lube and condoms.

 

The condom, stupidly, lays forgotten on the edge of the bed. He’s too overwhelmed, too impassioned to think. He fingers Grantaire slowly, but both their hearts jack-rabbit in their chests.

 

When he’s finally, finally inside Grantaire, his mind goes a numb blank. He forces his eyes open and looks up at Grantaire, who is red from the chest up, and breathing through the feeling.

 

“Move, come on, make it good.” He urges. Enjolras complies, thrusting as deep as he can without spiraling off in overwhelmed pleasure. Grantaire moves himself, more side to side than up and down. His thighs tremble but he doesn’t stop.

 

It doesn’t last long. He’d been on edge since Grantaire had spoken to him, and when they were holding hands during the first party, and making out during the last one, he had felt ready to come then.

 

Part of him wants to excuse it because of his inexperience, but it might just be the Grantaire-effect.

 

He takes him in his mouth once he himself finishes, moving downwards to capture him completely, swirling his tongue around in exploration. His left hand trails Grantaire’s stomach, feeling the soft hairs and then his legs, thick thigh muscles built from sport, and then his ass, warm and wet from Enjolras’s cum.

 

“I’m gonna-“ Grantaire doesn’t finish before he comes in his mouth. Enjolras swallows, frowning slightly at the strange taste. He pulls off, and kisses him messily. He feels the tears from Grantaire’s eyes, but doesn’t say anything, and neither does Grantaire.

 

They talk until the sun comes up, sharing secrets in the dark at first, and then under the blankets once the sky starts to light the room. Grantaire says he loves him, and Enjolras doesn’t know what to say back, so he tells Grantaire that sometimes he feels like he’s standing on a bridge, and it’s an image he sees so frequently that he’s named the bridge, and although he knows everything about this image because he’s seen it so many times since this summer, he doesn’t know which way to walk on the bridge. He has nightmares of the bridge crumbling before he has made up his mind.

 

Grantaire doesn’t respond, just climbs up his body to his mouth.

 

They make out tiredly for a few moments, until Grantaire’s mouth goes slack and too pliant. Enjolras pulls away, and kisses his face, brushing his hair, damp and straight with sweat off of his face.

 

“Be here, please be here in the morning.” He says to Grantaire’s sleeping body, watching his bare chest move up and down in an approximation of a deep rest.

 

When he wakes up, he’s not surprised to find he’s alone again.

 

4.

 

The scene feels all too familiar, with them set out on the balcony of Éponine and Combeferre’s again. This time, neither are looking at the dark sky with no stars, and are sat on plastic chairs, facing either other. Inside, their friends look out at them anxiously, but then quickly pretend they aren’t looking at them. It feels like a parody of themselves, but neither are laughing.

 

“How was your Christmas?" Enjolras asks, fiddling with the wrapper on his cider, the condensation making it easy to pick apart.

 

“I'm Muslim, dude.” Enjolras winces, but Grantaire laughs. “My winter break was nice, went home to D.C. and chilled, my sister came home from her freshman year overseas at Oxford. She always manages to one-up me, not hard I guess, but still. Uhm, thanks for the emails too, they were nice.”

 

Enjolras had sent four emails over winter break, one a week approximately. The first one was angry. The second and third were apologetic and shy and had taken ages to commit to typing them out. But he remembered Halloween, when Grantaire had extended an olive branch and had admitted he was pleased to receive the emails. The last email was more like a diary entry, and he wrote down an embarrassing amount of personal feelings, and didn’t even have the heart to proofread it before he hit send, knowing that if he did he would be too ashamed to ever actually send it.

 

“Grantaire, I don't mean to be crass,” Grantaire opens his mouth, presumedly to crack a joke, but shuts it after looking into Enjolras's eyes. “But what happened last semester, and this Halloween. You have to know that, that is my first experience so to say, and it has left me horribly unsure about everything ending the way it did.”

 

Grantaire swallows, and looks thoughtful as if he’d never thought of what effect this could have had on Enjolras. He feels his anger rise, but reminds himself to be calm and wait for words.

 

“I cannot apologize enough, like you were perfect man. I guess I didn’t imagine I could ever have any effect on you and your feelings and that’s my own bullshit to deal with but. It was stellar, best nights of my life, probably ever. Don’t doubt that.” He is not ashamed enough to admit he flushes pleasantly.

 

“Then what happened? I don't want to keep going like this. You don’t have to follow the logical conclusion one might assume after having two successful sexual relations, but can we at least be friends, like how we were.”

 

“The first time, I was embarrassed and a little angry. I have been in love with you for three years now, from the moment I saw you. It drives me crazy. Freshman year, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I puked twice a week, you drove me insane. Then, I cry during sex and tell you I love you and you look horrified and I come and you don’t say anything, you don’t tell me anything, and I’m not expecting you to say it back, but you’ve had to know that you were holding all the cards, or at least that’s what if felt like for me.” Enjolras replays the memory he has replayed many times. He doesn't remember it like that all. He remembers feeling overwhelmed, pleased, warm inside and out. He remembers passing out soon after he finished, and waking up alone.

 

“Halloween, I just thought you were too drunk to remember. You really roasted me at the welcome-back party, I didn’t know what this all meant to you. I’d do anything you ask, really, so it’s easier for me if you just don’t ask. If I’m gone.” Grantaire seems to prepare himself, breathing deeply.

 

“I have to fall out of love with you, so it can be good next time, if you want it to happen again.” Grantaire says, smiling bitterly. “Give me time.”

 

“I don't want you to fall out of love with me, I want to fall in love with you. I am in love with you.” Enjolras says, growing more confident with each word that comes out sweet, instead of his normal, hurtful rhetoric.

 

“Just because you say something good, doesn't mean it’s the truth.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean, R?”

 

“Figure it out, man.” He’s looking at his feet, at his ugly dirty converse again and everything feels too familiar to the welcome back party.

 

Enjolras refuses to let history repeat itself. He bites back whatever resentment that has been piling up. Thinks of everything that has happened between these months, of the way his own hair has grown, a sign of time passing. He thinks of his trial with patience, with learning to be guided instead of guiding, or maybe it’s wrong. With being patient with himself that he can cross the bridge alone and guide himself. Grantaire loves him, it’s not unexpected, but it changes his orientation a little bit. Extreme emotions have the thinnest of lines between them. Grantaire has told him he loved him before, but never not related to sex, never not in a way that didn’t say a million other things.

 

“No, everything I normally say to you comes out wrong, this is the first thing I’ve said that I’m pleased with, don’t dismiss it. Don’t dismiss me.”

 

“Have you been in love before?” Grantaire asks, turning his gaze straight from the ground to look at the horrible night sky.

 

“Besides now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No, never.”

 

“Then you can’t know. You can’t know if this is something you feel because you inevitably would, or if it’s just some sort of reaction to my obsession. My love pulling your own affection towards me and magnifying it. I can’t live with that, dude. You gotta be sure.”

 

It is hard to be faced with such pure adoration and not feel inclined to reciprocate it. Love begets love, but sometimes hatred. Enjolras has now felt both for Grantaire. A range of human emotions lies between them, hatred, anger, fear, sadness, surprise. But it is love that stands out, that banishes everything else to the background. He feels it now, in a way he never thought he’d care to feel before. Now, he cannot imagine his life without it.

 

“You say you love me, but I’ve often felt certain you hate me.”

 

“Love really does make fools of us all.”

 

“Kiss me.” Enjolras asks, remembering Halloween again, and feels careful to repeat the things that worked and learn from what didn’t. He doesn’t wait for Grantaire to reach up, and instead leans down, his hands finding themselves on the small of his back.

 

Their lips are both cold, and their noses don’t fit as neatly as their previous kisses. It’s the best one they’ve had yet. They love each other.

 

Grantaire breaks the kiss to smile so wide his big front teeth are on dazzling display. “It doesn’t hurt to kiss you anymore. It always hurt.”

 

Enjolras knows he's saying this in amazement, not in a way to offend. It reminds him of how he felt in October, when every glance he got of Grantaire hurt, and every moment he lived in the uncertainty of never seeing him again caused waves of anxiety within him to crash and burn inside of him, “I don’t want to hurt you anymore, let me show you. Be patient with me and see what my love looks like.”

 

“Okay. We can try it.” Grantaire looks shy, but pleased, and still dazed after the kiss.

 

They make their way inside, holding hands. Everyone pretends not to notice for about three seconds before breaking off into cheers, screams, and in the case of an extremely drunk Bahorel, tears.

 

“Congratulations you stupid idiots,” Éponine says first, raising her beer bottle in mock salute, leaning back against Combeferre’s chest as his arms wrap around her. Her dark skin is pink with inebriation, but she looks honest enough.

 

Everyone else offers their congratulations before growing bored with them, and moving on to talk about Hogwarts, pizza toppings, the apartheid week happening in a little over a month, and whose summer will be the coolest.

 

“Well, I’ve just been rejected from my investment banking internship, so I guess I’ll be using my economics degree for good and take the UNICEF internship in the city,” Éponine sighs, as if it wasn’t her plan all along. Everyone showers her with praise until she starts to fire off sarcastic insults, but smiles underneath secretly pleased.

 

“I’m going back to Honduras to stay with my mom and work at the environmental NGO I ranted about at the second meeting.” Courfeyrac says faux nonchalantly, “Oh, also I’m forcing Jehan to come along and he’s going to perfect his Spanish, write poetry, tan, and work on charming my mom.”

 

Feuilly, a non-student, didn’t have a different summer than his school year, but he listened indulgently and was pleased to hear that Bahorel and Cosette were going to work on getting their 40-hours of training this summer to then intern under Feuilly.

 

Combeferre would be doing research with the university, like he had last summer, and Marius was leaving to see his family in the Canary Islands for a few weeks, before coming back and studying for the LSAT. Enjolras admits to everyone that he’ll be staying in New York, working on several projects under the guidance of his favored Professor Lamarque.

 

“I’m still going to be continuing my MoMa internship, it’s the 12-month thing,” Grantaire said shyly when all eyes turned to him. “I mean, I don’t know if I want to go into museum work, but the research for the exhibit I get to do is so cool, and it relates to Albania, and I’m meeting so many incredibly, interesting people, so I don’t mind it too much, but I mean, who knows-“

 

He rambles until Éponine stops him with an, “That’s amazing R, don’t sweat it.”

 

“Bossuet and Musichetta are finally coming to meet my parents in Fukuoka! We discussed it over Christmas break, and my family wants to meet them.” Joly bursts. Enjolras knew how religious Joly’s family was, and this transatlantic meeting was an indication of something much more serious than expected. He had felt like they were so young, too young sometimes, but then he thought about how much they'd done, and the freedom he had experienced these last few years and decided to award himself and his friends agency. They were young, and foolish, most of them not out of their teenage years, but they we're stumbling into something resembling functioning. 

 

“Fuck, way to beat everyone else.” Courfeyrac says smiling.

 

“I’ve never been to Japan before, I’m so excited,” Bossuet says.

 

Enjolras spares a moment to think of all the terribly wonder, unlikely chaotic stories they’ll hear about when the three of them return. He feels an easiness wash over him, something he hasn’t felt really since he met Grantaire. There had been the prickly years, where his addition stirred something unpleasant in Enjolras, then the semester where they had forced themselves to get acquainted with each other properly, and what stirred in Enjolras then wasn’t something unpleasant, but it was unsettled in a way he didn’t know what to do with. Then the Summer of Radio Silence happened, the summer he dove into work but still found himself boundless and unfocused and had sent a dozen texts to Grantaire privately before he got the hint.

 

At midnight, they hear the screams from the ball drop from Times Square miles away. He turns to find Grantaire, and sees him across the room sitting on the ground between the feet of a kissing Cosette and Marius. They smile at each other, sweetly for a moment, before Grantaire winks lewdly and blows him suggestion of a kiss.

 

Enjolras walks over and makes the suggestion a promise.

 

 

5.

 

Spring was never his favorite season. Enjolras always thought it was impractical to have a favorite season, as they left and returned regardless. This spring, spent in a dream like haze would change his mind. He knows that each season know will pass in delightful ways with Grantaire by his side, above him, under him. All his nights spent in the fall imagining what it would be like to end his nights with Grantaire does nothing to compare to the reality, even three months into their relationship.

 

They do homework together in the living room with Jehan and Gavroche, and sometimes Courfeyrac, and sometimes everyone, crammed around the house in the strange assortment of floral, neon, and leather chairs, or the long pastel soft blue couch, all pieces found on the curbs of the road or at yard sales that Jehan and Grantaire frequent on weekends.

 

Sometimes, when they don't have any homework, Enjolras will sit with a cider in his hand and watch Gavroche work on his history papers while Jehan writes poetry, muttering out loud to himself absurd and beautiful things, and once he sweetly dedicates them a poem about spring, confusing but warming Enjolras’s heart as he ends it gently “and to now know not only with logic but with the part of the soul that logic cannot know/ that to love spring is to know no part of yourself hallowed” and Grantaire paints abstracts with watercolours and capture a softness he’d never seen in the world before being in love.

 

They are consistent. They end most nights in Grantaire’s bed, under an electric blanket and a plush comforter in their boxers making out or staring at each other and running their finger tips along unfamiliar familiar bodies. Enjolras had discovered having sex again scared him, attached to this weird anxiety of Grantaire leaving him before he woke up. Grantaire is patient, apologetic, and sweet.

 

He spends his weekends organizing for ABC, and at his internship with Feuilly, sometimes going out and smoking weed together and watching movies before heading back to the neighborhood of the college. He respects Feuilly tremendously, and loves being able to breathe outside of the academia bubble that traps him.

 

The first time they have sex again, they’d been apart for a week, Enjolras had stayed in the city for spring break and doubled his volunteering hours, and Grantaire had headed back home to D.C. with Floréal and Éponine and her siblings in tow.

 

When Enjolras met him at the train station, he had grabbed him quickly and kissed him so passionately Gavroche moved on from fake retching sounds and threw his duffle bag at the two of them.

 

“I don’t know, I might prefer your helpless pining over this,” Éponine says.

 

“We always have Floréal and her stupid banker boyfriend, if we’d like to look at helpless,” Grantaire says.

 

They had texted nearly non-stop during the break, but it wasn’t the same as being this close. To see his smile break out in real time, to smell his scent of cigarettes, turpentine when working with his oils, or Cabernet Sauvignon if he’s been sketching, and the cleanness underneath it all of his cucumber shampoo and confusing bubblegum body wash he probably stole from Jehan once and grown accustomed.

 

“You’re just jealous my boyfriend’s an only child trust-fund baby who isn’t too noble to use it.” She laughs.

 

The head back on the metro, crowded, and separate at the stop near their universities with hugs. Gavroche follows Éponine rather than Grantaire.

 

They make love with the lights on, and the window open in the 10th floor apartment Enjolras has started to see as a home, too. Jehan isn’t in the apartment, and they take advantage to be louder than normal and attempt to embarrass each other by saying the most ridiculous things, sweet, and scandalous, and sometimes a little mean.

 

He finishes first still, cursing himself before Grantaire calms him down with kisses and finishes himself off shortly while Enjolras breathes with shudders.

 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Grantaire whispers into the dark much later. Grantaire’s head is on his chest, and he can feel the breaths of his words against his skin.

 

Enjolras considers pretending to be asleep, not sure he can handle whatever is about to be said. Then he remembers, he prides himself on his bravery and now, just because something is new, and the outcome is unknown, doesn’t mean he cannot push forward in the same manor he does everything. Love is new, sure, but plenty of things he has now grown accustomed to have started off as scarily unfamiliar.

 

“Anything, Grantaire, I mean it.” He circles his arms around him more protectively.

 

“I love you.” He feels, rather than sees, a smile against his chest.

 

“Go to sleep.” Enjolras grins.

 

“I can’t, I like you too much to close my eyes.”

 

In the dark, they feel like they can be at their sweetest. In the daylight, it is hard to let go of their quick barbs and petty arguments. But in the cool of the darkness, in the privacy of their own bedrooms, they can let their hearts be unguarded and earnest, and let their tongues work without shame.

 

“Then sleep, and we’ll dream together.” He knows it’s impractical, but he closes and his eyes and they do.

 

6.

 

“Friends, Romans, upperclassmen, lend me your ears. It’s the end of junior year, our fearful trip is done. We’ve grown from being profoundly messy to being profound messes,” Grantaire starts. He’s drunk and standing on a chair, wobbling so dangerously that Bahorel moves from texting in the back to stand behind him and hold him up. They’re nearly the same height.

 

Éponine boos him from the back, and then cackles when he nearly tips over.

 

“I have a whole speech prepared, if you’ll allow me.” His cheeks are rosy, and his skin has resumed its optimal tan color after spending days sketching outside while Enjolras ran fingers through his hair absentmindedly and reread his political science notes.

 

“I want to congratulate us all on becoming adults in love this semester. Sweet Aphrodite, impossible Cupid, my forever favored Prende, we are indebted to you this year, and evermore.”

 

“Jollly, Bossuet, Musichetta, you have found your place among the mom-tier friends, previously filled by only the likes of Combeferre and Cosette, and your commitment and communication for each other inspires the solar rotation, moves men to tears, and causes a rare yearning for stability in the wildest of beasts.”

 

“Grantaire, please get down!” someone heckles from the back, probably a half worried and half amused Joly. Grantaire pretends he can’t hear, and instead moves onto the table, feet carefully placed between beer bottles and cocktail glasses. Bahorel struggles, but continues to hold on to the back of Grantaire.

 

“Tread softly on my dreams," He declares wildly. Enjolras spears a moment to wonder if he is embarrassed for or by Grantaire. He finds he is neither, only amused and slightly confused.

 

“Oh lord,” Courfeyrac whispers excitedly, then elbows Enjolras. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

 

“Jehan, you and Courfeyrac’s epic poem has reached its first conclusion. I cannot wait for the sequel, lost at sea, raging war, redoing wedding vows, unable to solve the riddles of a seawitch, something like that.”

 

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Jehan voice is wondrous.

 

“Feuilly, man, better luck next semester, that’s all I gotta say.” Feuilly chuckles and raises his glass of beer in agreement.

 

“Bahorel,” Grantaire says twisting around, “I'm so glad we all met your internet girlfriend last month. We were getting worried. But she’s delightful, not as transparent as I thought-”

 

“I can and will drop you.” Bahorel warns.

 

“‘Ponine, I-“

 

“And you can stop right there, buddy.” She yells to him. He surprisingly listens.

 

“- and in conclusion,” Grantaire rushes, “Cosette and Marius, try for some spice, maybe stage a few fights, one of you go missing for a few weeks, I do so dearly miss your freshman year dramatics.” Cosette laughs good-naturedly, and Marius has the decency to fake a few chuckles among the honest hoots.

 

“Thank you all, good night unto you all. Give me your hands," He says, turned to reach for Bahorel’s hands, “if we be friends, remember to keep love in your heart, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.”

 

“Did you just quote Prairie Home Companion and Shakespeare?” Jehan asks delightedly.

 

Grantaire makes his way down carefully from the table then the chair, and walks to the front of the café where Enjolras is sitting patiently. People are clapping and wiping fake or real tears away.

 

Enjolras wants to say something sweet, he thinks through a list of things to say, “I’m surprised you didn't fall off the chair.” Enjolras flushes while Grantaire laughs.

 

“I didn’t mean to say that. I meant to say something sweet.”

 

Grantaire smiles indulgently, grabbing his hand, “We’ll get there.”

 

Their fingers tangle together first under the table, then Enjolras drags them up on the table, not attempting to hide his smile. For once, he feels fine with waiting. The words don’t come perfectly quite yet, but he knows one day they will. He’s content to be excited for the journey in between, and patient in letting love teach rather than consume. They kiss again, and it doesn’t hurt; it heals.


End file.
